Tag: Writing

“Men who share the same rooms, soldiers or prisoners, develop a strange allegiance as if, having cast off their armour with their clothing, they fraternize every evening, over and above their differences, in the ancient community of dream and fatigue.” – Albert Camus, The Guest, from The Exile and the Kingdom, a collection of short stories.

Having been unable to write as of late [and I am not going to discuss that state of affairs yet once again] I have been spending a great deal of time reading. I acquired recently a collected work by the great philosopher/novelist Albert Camus. Along with Exile and the Kingdom, the collection includes The Plague, The Fall and some of his essays like The Myth of Sisyphus, and Reflections on the Guillotine. Existential crises not withstanding, the work of Camus is most beautifully written.

Born to French parents in [French colonial] Algeria in 1913, Camus spent his childhood and early adult years in that country. As a French citizen, though of the poorer class, he was witness to the treatment of the native population by their French counterparts and many of his works are set in Algeria and concern the two cohabiting cultures of the country. His descriptions of the landscape and the people can be breathtaking. See if you don’t agree:

“She had dreamed too, of palm trees and soft sand. Now that she saw that the desert was not that at all, but merely stone, stone everywhere, in the sky full of nothing but stone dust, rasping and cold, as on the ground, where nothing grew among the stones but dry grasses.” The Adulterous Woman.

“The silent city was no more than an assemblage of huge, inert cubes, between which only the mute effigies of great men, carapaced in bronze, with their blank stone or metal faces, conjured up a sorry semblance of what man had been. In lifeless squares and avenues these tawdry idols lorded it under the lowering sky; stolid monsters that might have personified the rule of immobility imposed upon us, or, anyhow, its final aspect, that of a defunct city in which plague, stone and darkness had effectively silenced every voice.” The Plague

Seems eerily prophetic, reading that passage now… Anyway, I am in awe of this ability to paint such vivid word pictures, to evoke the spirit of a place and a time. So that while I am not writing, at least I am continuing to think about it and to learn from a master like Albert Camus.

One of the best parts of writing is creating characters, telling their stories and in doing so, pretending to be someone else. It’s like having a second life, completely in your control. One of the worst things about it is everyone who knows you assumes that in some respect, you are revealing aspects of your persona that you cover up in public. When you write melancholy, disfunction or even downright malice into your characters, does that mean that inside you feel that way on some level as well? And why is it that it’s only those darker qualities that people question? Why would someone assume that if I write about a serial killer, that I have murderous tendencies myself? Or in a more realistic scenario, if a write about a character suffering from depression or anxiety, does that mean I am revealing my inner issues too?

The short answer is: of course not! The beauty of writing is being able to step outside yourself and into someone else’s life. To use your imagination in a more than superficial way to feel what it’s like to be another person with a unique perspective and a completely different set of circumstances. When we do that we have to be prepared to go to the dark side. To find those regions of human experience that aren’t pretty or comfortable. Because really that is life these days.

I’ve said this previously: being able to shine a light in dark places in our writing is a good thing. It creates the drama a novel needs. It makes our characters believable and relatable. It gives them depth, dimension. It makes the reader invest in the character, either in hoping for their salvation or their demise. But it doesn’t make the writing a confession. It just makes us better writers.

As a rather contented introvert, being isolated should not be such an ordeal. I’m used to not talking to anyone all day long until my husband comes home from work. And yes, we’ve made some new friends here and enjoy an occasional get-together. But my daily life is fairly solitary. Besides exercise and household chores, my routine consists of writing, researching, editing, and possibly art projects. However, in a strange twist of fate, isolation has completely disrupted this quiet existence.

Since we’ve been in lockdown for the last couple of weeks, I swear I have spent more time writing and answering messages, emails, and talking over WhatsApp and FaceTime than I ever have. We all feel the need to get in touch. It might be out of genuine concern, boredom or perhaps that dreadful feeling of I might never get to see you again if one of us gets sick. It’s probably a combination of all those things. I’ve never been a Facebook person but I find myself scrolling through it all the time now. I have joined local groups so I can find out what’s going on here in the village. This is not me!!!

It is not surprising that ‘people’ people [extroverts] are in constant contact. I get that they need to be connected to feel energised and fulfilled. But someone like me doesn’t normally need that kind of interaction. It also doesn’t make me a bad person or cool, aloof or uncaring. It just means I cope differently. I find peace and quiet rejuvenating. Isolation should be a piece of cake. Should be. Why am I losing my mind?

These are unprecedented circumstances. Even though I’m reaching corona fatigue, I still feel the need to pay attention, to wait hopefully for that good news to come. Until a return to normalcy [whatever that’s going to look like] we all need to talk, to vent, to connect and make sure everyone in our circle is doing ok. Even us introverts, apparently. I should be great at self isolation. But I’m not. How ironic.